Finding Hope
by Badgergater
Summary: When Samaritan forces the team to go into hiding, John Reese must find a new purpose in his new life. Old habits, however, are very hard to break. (Written before seeing any of S4, according to the previews, it would be AU).


Finding Hope

By Badgergater

Season: after S-3 Deus ex Machina, and pre-S4 (Written before seeing any of S4, so it is AU)

Authors Note: Thanks to Lynn for the beta, and as always, to Corine for the gift of POI

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Adaptability.

It was one of John Reese's most valuable traits. Like a snake shedding its skin or a chameleon changing its color, he had the ability to fit in anywhere, to make a place for himself in any environment.

He'd been doing it all his life.

It was something being raised as an Army brat had taught him, moving from post to post and then- after the death of his father- to a whole different lifestyle in the farm country of Washington. Being a soldier demanded constant adaptations too. As a military man he had to make a place for himself in each new deployment- on a base, in a squad, joining a team. And in the CIA every mission was an exercise in adjusting to circumstances and becoming an inconspicuous part of any scenario.

He was a master at blending in and- when the time came- of moving on.

But not this time.

These last three years, unique in his existence, had taught John Reese something new and changed him in ways he hadn't expected- made him aware that there were people, circumstances, jobs that he didn't want to leave; they had provided the astonishing realization that there were people he could depend upon, people who would in fact come to save him.

Fleeing the library had been like leaving…home.

As he walked away that day Reese took one last longing look back, regretting that he was leaving this job unfinished. Now there would be no one looking out for the Numbers that he knew would keep coming. Wrongs would be left unrighted. The innocent would be left unaided. How could he look after Taylor, as had been Carter's dying request? And Harold- the man who had saved him more than once, who had become the first person he could call friend in… well, in far too long- would be left on his own, left to fend for himself hindered by his physical limitations.

His team - his friends - his new life- now broken apart.

John's anger swelled.

All the good things that had come his way in the last three years- three productive years, years when his life had come to mean something, years in which he'd finally found that thing he'd needed most- a true purpose- snatched from him.

If Greer had stood in front of him at that moment he'd have throttled the bastard with his bare hands- as slowly and as painfully as possible- gladly breaking his personally imposed rule of dispatching his targets cleanly with a minimum of pain.

If he hadn't hated Decima before, he loathed them beyond measure now.

The worry, on top of the anger, was like a lead weight dragging him down toward the darkness of the abyss. He wouldn't be there to look out for all those he'd come to come to care about- Harold, Bear, Shaw. Hell, he'd miss Fusco, when it came right down to it. Even Root had become part of his new world. John knew they were all in danger, but would Decima go further? Hunt down the people who had helped him? Or those he had helped?

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A new life.

A fresh start.

On the run from Samaritan.

He could run from his pursuers, but he had already learned that he couldn't run away from himself- from his failures, his needs, from who he was and would always be and what he was destined to do.

His face looked so ordinary when he stared at it in the mirror every morning, but he knew the monster within would always be lurking there, waiting to rear its ugly head. He knew there was something missing inside him- some hole in his psyche- something lacking in him that normal people weren't even aware they had. It led them to recoil in horror from the kind of work he had done for years.

He hadn't enjoyed it, but he had done it because he had believed it needed to be done.

He needed action, activity, focus, work, _purpose_, to keep his dark side at bay.

Reese would never forget Finch's words: "You don't need a psychiatrist or a support group or drugs. You need a purpose."

Was he that transparent?

Harold had made him see it, see what he needed- and something once seen cannot be unseen. Something once known can never be unknown. It was like looking at one of those abstract art puzzles-once you see the face in the table leg, you can't forget it's there.

Yes, for a man who claimed not to understand people, Harold Finch had pinpointed him like a laser painted target. John had realized how right Harold was that very first day, even when he didn't want to acknowledge the truth the genius had spoken.

But now the job, the _purpose_, was gone.

He'd already lost count of the number of times his hand had unconsciously moved toward his ear to activate the comm link, the number of times he'd expected to hear Harold's measured tones in his ear. John missed the partnership they'd developed, the trust and yes, the _friendship_.

They made a hell of a team.

And John quickly discovered he didn't much care for being a lone wolf.

He told himself it was only temporary. That somehow the bespectacled genius would find a way to overcome Samaritan because Harold wasn't just smart, he was brilliant. Resilient. Intent.

He had to give it time. Wait and be patient. Keep his head down. Lay low. Be inconspicuous.

Stay out of trouble.

Huh!

All those things he had never been good at- he always had to be working at something. He needed action, focus, a plan, a program, a _job_.

Of course he did have a job, the one the Machine had set up for him with his new identity.

John Cooper, bartender.

It wasn't a bad job, but it was just a job to earn a paycheck- work with no purpose. His third floor walk up apartment was small but adequate for his few and simple needs; he'd certainly lived in much worse accommodations. It was nothing like the luxury he'd most recently been living in, but that spacious loft had been a pleasant aberration in his vagabond life.

He tried to be John Cooper, he really did. But that was another one of his flaws- that he could leave no one behind, that he could not stand by and watch an injustice being perpetrated. He couldn't lead a mundane and ordinary existence. The need to protect was a part of his DNA.

Yes, he needed a purpose, and creating the perfect mojito just didn't cut it.

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John Cooper, mild mannered bartender, didn't last a week.

It was a quiet night at the Whiskey Road. A couple of regulars were drowning their sorrows at the bar, commiserating with each other over the sorry state of the world while a muted basketball game went unnoticed on the big screen behind the bar. The only other patron in the place was an unobtrusive middle-aged man sitting alone at a table in the back, quietly minding his own business.

Clad in his new uniform of a forest green polo shirt with the bar's logo stitched on the pocket, the ex-agent had polished the bar to a gleaming shine that would have surpassed inspection under the toughest CO he'd ever had. Then he wiped the water spots from every glass in the place, straightened the rows of liquor bottles on the shelf behind the bar, and restocked the inventory.

He was so bored he was contemplating shining his shoes when a trio of noisy arrivals broke the quiet-three brash and boisterous young men already well on their way to becoming inebriated. In the all but empty room they inexplicably picked the table next to the silent man, loudly ordering a round of beers. John deftly filled three tall glasses with the bar's favored on-tap brew and carried them to the table. As he returned to his post behind the bar, the tall man couldn't help but notice the quiet patron's consternation at the rowdies invading his space.

John's finely honed instinct for looming trouble kicked into high gear.

It took only one more round of beers for his assessment to become reality.

Having quickly slammed down their second beers and ordered thirds, the loudest of the boisterous group lurched to his feet, heading in the general direction of the bathrooms.

And stumbled into the quiet man's table, knocking his papers to the floor.

The silent man looked up and made a grievous error; he made eye contact with the Loudmouth.

"Whyn't you keep outta my way?" Loudmouth slurred belligerently.

"I wasn't in your way," the soft spoken man answered logically, stooping to pick up his scattered possessions.

Loudmouth gave him a shove, sending the quiet patron sprawling, aiming a kick at the downed man.

John was instantly in motion, out from behind the bar and across the room in a flash. Before Loudmouth's raised foot could make contact, the ex-agent's shoe did, catching the aggressor's ankle. The rowdy stumbled and John's left jab expertly clipped his chin on the way down.

Loudmouth was out before he hit the floor.

"Hey!" shouted the man's inebriated friends, looking accusingly at John as they bent to pick up their buddy. "What did you do to him?"

"Nothing," John answered innocently, his voice low. "He stumbled. Your friend here should really watch where he's walking."

"I saw you…" Before the Loudmouth's nearly as loud friend could voice his accusations toward the bartender- who didn't look at all apologetic- he was distracted by the downed man groaning and trying to open glazed eyes.

"Maybe you should take your friend outside for some fresh air," John suggested, adding a hint of menace to his tone. "It's probably safer out there. Let me help."

The ex-vigilante grabbed the wobbly drunk by the shoulders and manhandled him out the door, unceremoniously dropping him onto the sidewalk. The evicted man's stunned buddies followed, still unsure what had just happened as they picked up their friend and hurried away, furtively looking back.

John watched their departure with great satisfaction, shrugging his shoulders before returning to his post behind the bar. It felt good. It felt right. He hadn't had so much fun since… well, since he'd been The Man in the Suit.

The good feeling remained even after his boss jacked him up about not manhandling the customers, even the obnoxious ones. Derek let him off with a stern warning about the importance of diplomacy. John wisely refrained from explaining his own slightly-distorted-from-the-norm views of diplomacy, but listened civilly to the lecture about not providing even the most abrasive customer with an excuse to sue the bar. "We could all be out of a job, John, and I know you don't want that," Derek emphasized.

John pretended to listen.

And he really did try to toe the mark.

And failed, of course.

Though it wasn't the loudmouthed jerk that started him down the garden path.

It was a woman.

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She was blonde and pretty and tiny- at least a foot shorter than he was and John doubted she'd weigh much more than a hundred pounds soaking wet. He recalled her as being one of a mixed group of seven or eight men and women who'd come into the bar a couple of times during his first nights on the job. He heard enough snatches of their conversations to decide that they worked nearby and liked to stop in and let off some steam after a day at the cube farm. The tiny blonde always left with the same obviously possessive man, her boyfriend most likely since she wasn't wearing a ring.

But this night she came in alone and took a seat at the bar. John mixed her a rum and coke, the same drink she'd ordered each time she'd been there, and she smiled up at him for remembering.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome." He thought her smile looked sad. "All alone tonight?"

"Yeah. My name's Lilly."

"John."

"You're new here."

"A week."

"How do you like it?"

He shrugged. "It's a job."

She peered at him over the rim of her glass, studying him closely. He was handsome and charming and that smile with its hint of sadness, self-deprecation and mystery all rolled into one- it alone was enough to sweep a girl off her feet. "What's a nice guy like you doing in a place like this, John?"

"Who says I'm nice?"

"This," she lifted her drink. "You remembered. And noticed that I came in by myself tonight."

He nodded. "This isn't the best place for a woman alone."

She laughed, mirthlessly. "As if I didn't know."

"Trouble?"

"When isn't there?" She gulped down the remainder of her drink and asked for another.

He gave her the refill, cautioning, "Drinking alone is not a good thing."

"A bartender, discouraging his customers? But hey, I'm not drinking alone, I'm drinking with you." She raised the glass in salute to him and drank it down.

When she ordered her third, he added more than the usual amount of Coke and less than the standard quantity of rum and set it in front of her with more unsolicited advice. "You can't drink your troubles away, Lilly. It doesn't work."

"And what would you know about it?"

His light tone evaporated. "Enough."

She snorted in a very unladylike way, the amount of alcohol she'd consumed beginning to show. "Sure, a good looking guy like you? You must have women by the dozen falling at your feet."

He gave her a long, sorrowful look. "I know. I… lost…. the only one who mattered to me."

Her laugh was bitter. "Here's to loss, John." She tossed down the drink and asked for another. "Loss isn't my problem. Wish it was."

He raised an inquiring eyebrow.

She shook her head.

"You know you can tell your bartender anything. It's part of the job, lending a sympathetic ear to the customers," he offered persuasively, turning on the charm.

She'd had enough to drink that she suddenly found herself throwing caution entirely to the winds and pouring out her story to this stranger with the kind eyes. "Sure, why not. Steve, that's my boyfriend, well, he's sort of my ex-boyfriend now. I ditched him two nights ago. Told him we were done. Through. That he had to move on," she added lightly, grimacing as she sipped her drink.

"Sort of ex…?" he questioned.

"He did leave that night." She paused a bit while John kept silent, waiting for more, and finally she muttered, "Oh hell. He left, but he sat in his car outside my building all night. Watching me. And he's been calling me. Leaving messages. Following me. And at work, I look up and he's staring at me." She shuddered, took a gulp of her drink. "It's… creepy."

"It sounds scary." John filled a beer for another customer at the far end of the bar, then returned to where Lilly sat. "Did he hurt you?"

"He's never hit me."

John reached forward and touched her arm where the sleeve of her blouse didn't quite cover the fading bruises on her bicep. A row of four parallel marks marred her outer arm and a small round bruise showed on the inside of her bicep. He recognized it as the marks left by four fingers and a thumb, grasping with steely force. "But he did this to you."

"He didn't mean to," she answered quickly.

"They never do. At first."

"Steve said he was sorry. That it wouldn't happen again. I…I believed him," she sounded uncertain.

"But…" he prompted.

She squirmed. "I don't know."

"You don't trust him."

Her fingers tapped the rim of her glass. "He was really angry when he left. And some of the phone calls… and messages are... frightening. He says I'll take him back, that I need him, that I _belong_ to him…"

John was getting more concerned with every revelation and the next one raised his alert level to ten.

"And I know Steve has a gun."

"Have you called the police?"

"He hasn't done anything."

"Yet." John pulled out a notepad from under the bar and scribbled a name and phone number on it. "Detective Fusco is an old…" he hesitated and selected his description with care born of the current high risk situation with Samaritan, "…acquaintance… of mine. Give him a call. Maybe he could talk to Steve…" He handed her the paper.

She took it and tucked it into her clutch without looking at it, and John was sure she would never make the call.

Suddenly there were loud voices at the door and a group of six young businessmen came in. John was busy serving their drinks for a few minutes and when he finally got the chance to check on her, Lilly's chair was empty. A pair of twenties were tucked under her empty glass on the bar.

Damn. Gone. He didn't even know her last name. Or Steve's.

But when had that ever stopped him?

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He could have let it go, but he couldn't.

It felt good to be working again. John clandestinely dug through the receipts from Friday night, the last time Lilly had been in with her boyfriend, and found Steve's tab. Paid by a credit card. John grinned. He had the guy's name now: Steven Daniel Smith. Piece of cake to find his address, where he worked, where he liked to eat, drink, shop, buy gas, park his car. It was amazing what could be found online with a minimum of digging, even without Harold's expertise. John Re…Cooper felt more invigorated than he had in weeks.

He didn't need the Machine to give him a job.

He was fully capable of finding his own.

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His job as a bartender did have one very useful benefit.

His days were all his own.

John put that free time to good use surveilling Steve. He did miss all the technology and gadgets he'd had at his disposal when he'd worked for Harold- the ability to clone phones, the high priced surveillance cameras, the instantaneous backup, his boss finding information while he worked the street. But almost as good as creating contingency plans as Finch, John had…appropriated…a few items, stashing them in one of several caches he'd secreted around the city in case of a rainy day.

And right now it was pouring.

As Smith left his office for lunch, a suit clad John rose from the chair in the high rise's waiting area where he'd been reading the _Wall Street Journal_. The ex-CIA agent followed his target out the door, walked rapidly up behind the man in the midst of the noon hour crush of humanity, stumbled and bumped into his quarry. Apologizing gruffly, he slipped the tiny pin mike into the collar of the man's suit coat. The bug wasn't as efficient (John wasn't going to admit to cool) as listening in to Steve's phone directly, but it was effective for both audio and tracking.

It quickly revealed an entirely adequate amount of relevant data.

John couldn't intercept the texts, but Steve made a lot of phone calls- all to Lilly and all menacing.

Long before the end of the day the man now known as John Cooper had proof that Steve Smith was definitely harassing and stalking his ex-girlfriend.

The tall man decided to return the favor. Dressed once more in the suit that allowed him to blend in with the workday Manhattan businessman crowd, he waited outside Smith's apartment until the man left for his job again the next morning. Thus assured that he wouldn't be interrupted, John walked up to the building like he belonged there, helpfully held the door pushed open by a woman escorting two school age kids, and was in the lobby. Taking the elevator up to the man's apartment, he picked the lock and slipped inside unnoticed.

He normally entered a suspect's space without leaving any evidence of his visit, but this time the ex-agent had an entirely different purpose. He made no effort to conceal his presence but did exactly the opposite- purposely leaving behind a plethora of clues pointing to his invasion of Steve's residence. John rifled through the man's closets until he found the gun Lilly had mentioned, a flashy but cheaply made weapon. It wasn't at all up to his professional standards, but figuring it just might come in handy somewhere down the road as a throwaway piece he tucked it into the waistband of his trousers.

aHHHacking into the man's computer took him only a few minutes and John explored Smith's e-mails, finding more ugly messages to Lilly. He browsed through a large folder of pictures, some from a beach vacation, some of Steve and Lilly in various poses. Another file was porn; thankfully there were no photos of Lilly there. Finally, he made his way into Smith's banking files, finding nothing out of the ordinary there- modest checking and credit card balances, a Roth IRA, a small savings account, a car loan.

By this time John had worked up an appetite, so he made himself a sandwich from the food in the refrigerator and- though it was only early afternoon- helped himself to a beer. He left the empty bottle and the plate dotted with crumbs in plain sight on the kitchen table.

Then he went to have a talk with Mr. Smith.

Picking up his target once again as the man left work, John followed as Lilly's ex-boyfriend ate at a trendy diner just up the street from his office. Steve paid for his meal with his credit card and as he strolled out, John walked up behind him as he stepped outside, cleanly picking Smith's pocket as the stalker headed for his car.

John watched as his target drove away, then hailed a cab and easily tracked the man with the bug he'd planted the day before. The vigilante smiled as he realized where Smith was heading- exactly the destination John had anticipated. He paid the fare with Smith's card, giving the happy cabby a very generous tip. "Take your wife out to dinner. On me," John instructed with a satisfied smirk.

Smith's vehicle was easy to spot, parked just down the street from Lilly's apartment. From that vantage point the stalker could sit in his car and watch as the lights came on in the woman's living room. Soon the creep was bending over his phone texting, a sneer on his face.

With a smirk, the ex-agent left his vantage point on the steps of a nearby high rise and strolled casually down the deserted street. Once he was abreast of Smith's car John abruptly changed direction, taking a sudden fast step to the passenger door, smashing the window with one quick blow and sweeping the glass off the seat before sliding in beside the momentarily stunned stalker.

Smith tried to bolt but John had already tapped the door locks and snatched the keys from the ignition.

"What the hell! What are you do… Who are you?"

"I am the man you never wanted to meet, Mr. Smith." John was enjoying the look of panic on the stalker's face- he was a firm believer that turnabout was always fair play.

"H-how do you know who I am?"

"You're careless." John pulled out the wallet Smith hadn't even missed and dropped it into the stunned man's lap.

Steve was shaking. "Wh- what do you want?"

"I want you to leave Lilly alone…"

"I haven't done anything to her…"

John's hand shot out with blinding speed, his fingers clasping around Smith's throat- not tight enough to choke, but tight enough to control. And terrify. He leaned in close, his face mere inches from Steve's, his voice barely above a whisper and loaded with menace. "And you won't ever hurt her. Because, Steven Daniel Smith, I will kill you if you do." He released the stalker's throat and pulled the weapon from his waistband, displaying it to the stalker. "With your own gun."

Steve rubbed his throat with one hand. "B-b-b-but how did you… how did you get that?" The man was all but blubbering.

John had met this type too many times before- the kind who acted tough around someone they thought they could bully, but turned to jello when the tables were turned on them. "I had a very nice visit to your house today, Steve. You should really install better quality locks. And use a stronger password on your computer, especially for your bank accounts."

Though it hardly seemed possible, Smith's face went another shade paler.

John tucked the gun back into his waistband, staring straight ahead. "When I leave, you will drive away from here. You won't come back to this street, or this neighborhood. You won't follow her or call her or contact her in any way. You'll find another job. And you will do it because if you don't, I'll know." John turned to Smith, smiling coldly. "And I don't make threats, Steve. Only promises."

With the message delivered, John climbed out of the car without a backward glance. He slammed the door shut behind him and strode down the street with a renewed swagger, filled with satisfaction.

He'd forgotten just how much he enjoyed this.

Dealing with Steve however, meant that John was late getting to work that evening. His boss was waiting for him, pacing behind the bar, alternating between glancing pointedly down at his watch and glaring up at his overdue new bartender. "You're late, John. I had to ask Josh to work overtime to cover for you," Derek fumed. "Where have you been?"

"I had some personal business to clear up."

"Personal business more important than your job?"

"Nothing is more important than my job," John answered evenly, a shadow of a grin flitting across his face as if he knew some private joke.

"Well, being prompt is an important part of your job."

"Yes it is."

Derek threw him an angry look, not at all amused by his employee's evasiveness, knowing there was an undercurrent to the conversation that was evading his grasp. John Cooper was a good bartender- knowledgeable, quick and efficient behind the bar, friendly enough with the customers without being overly so. But there was something about the man that Derek found- okay, he was man enough to admit it- scary.

John maintained his calm demeanor. He'd been dressed down by more than one fearsome officer during his Army career and he knew the wisest course was to simply stand mute. He didn't even protest his boss's decision to dock him a whole hour's pay for 15 minutes of tardiness. It didn't matter.

It was worth it.

The bully buster was back.

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A few days later Lilly stopped back in the bar, a happy smile on her face this time, explaining that Steve had stopped harassing her and in fact word around the office was that he was looking for a new job. "I don't know what happened, but I feel free," she declared, sipping her drink.

"Good for you," he answered, genuinely pleased.

She suddenly looked narrowly at him. "You know, you were the only one I told about what was going on. You didn't… do something, did you?"

"Me?"

"Maybe you called your friend the cop?"

"No," John answered honestly, fighting to keep the satisfaction out of his voice. "Maybe Steve just realized the error of his ways." The tall man smiled blandly and said nothing more. He didn't need her to know what he'd done. Working behind the scenes was rewarding enough.

For a while.

After a few days, the glow of success wore off and his restless feelings all too quickly returned.

That's when he started, not on purpose, not intending to find trouble- not consciously of course. But unable to sleep after closing up the bar, John walked through the dark streets of his neighborhood, hoping to burn off some of the excess energy that was leaving him edgy and irritable. He used to feel exactly this same way on the rare occasions Harold's Machine hadn't given them a Number. He'd taken Bear out for exercise then, sometimes walking for hours. Or spent time probing his quirky boss's secrets.

He liked the city at night. It suited him. He could lurk in the background, observing as he walked.

And this night he walked right into trouble.

What else would you expect in his less-than-ideal neighborhood at 3 a.m.?

A young tough in an oversized jacket, face obscured by the brim of his baseball cap, was robbing a tourist. Hopped up on something, John realized immediately from the way the mugger's hands were shaking so hard he could barely keep a grip on the pistol he was pointing. The barrel was wobbling around like a willow tree in a brisk wind, sometimes pointing at his victim, sometimes at the ground, sometimes at the sky.

The terrified muggee was already digging into his pockets, hands fumbling with his wallet, muttering a litany of pleas. "Don't shoot, please, don't shoot me. Here. Take it, take everything… please don't shoot me… please don't…."

With Smith's gun in his hand John catfooted down the path until he was close enough behind the thief to jam the barrel into the mugger's ribs. "Drop the weapon," he ordered.

The punk obeyed, the pistol hitting the sidewalk at his feet while the victim stood wide-eyed and shaking. John pushed the thief forward, then bent and retrieved the weapon. "I'll keep this, just to be sure that you don't try to use it on anyone else." John didn't carry zip ties anymore, and he couldn't exactly call Fusco to mop up like he'd done in the old days. "Guess it's your lucky day," he told the punk who turned and ran.

John turned his attention to the scared tourist. The would-be victim was staring at him, rooted to the spot and shaking like a leaf. "Y-y-you're a c-c-cop?" he stuttered.

"Undercover," John answered, which was not a lie. He _was_ undercover- or at least living under the radar- and if some tourist from Kokomo or Kalamazoo assumed that his one word answer meant undercover police, well John was not responsible for what someone presumed to be true. "You should stay off these side streets. Keep to the neighborhood around your hotel. It's safer there."

John left the shaken tourist and walked back to his small apartment, feeling somehow more satisfied than he had for a long time. He slept well for what little was left of that night and it was the best night's rest he'd enjoyed since the whole mess had started with Decima.

And the next night after work, purposefully this time, he went walking again.

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Over the next several weeks John intervened in several almost-crimes. He busted up a drug deal. All the kneecappings he'd done back when he'd been The Man in the Suit seemed rather too trademarkish for his current situation, so he refrained as much as possible from doing anything than might prompt a very smart machine to infer a pattern. John toned down his previous insouciant tendencies for less flamboyant action, which did unfortunately somewhat reduce his feelings of satisfaction- though not so much that he even considered discontinuing his vigilante actions.

Instead he restocked his supply of zip ties and left bad guys zipped to a park bench. Tossed drugs into the river and threw in confiscated guns too. Left glaring evidence at the scene of a beating he'd been too late to stop, following the thief and lifting his wallet, then circling back to drop it near the scene so it would lead even a blind cop to the perp. Tripped a purse snatcher so that he went sprawling, tied him up with his own shoelaces, then took the pilfered bag back to the grateful little old lady who lived just down the block from him. He was pretty sure her eyesight was bad enough she wouldn't recognize him.

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Two days later John was picking up his morning coffee at the diner down the street when he overheard a conversation between two middle-aged women he recognized as residents of his block.

The taller one was sipping her latte as she relayed the latest gossip. "Have you heard? People are saying there's some sort of vigilante around here, helping people and stopping crimes."

"Don't be so gullible, Rita," disagreed her friend, breaking apart her raspberry scone and nibbling on the pieces. "That's just another one of those urban legends, a tall tale about something that maybe happened to the friend of somebody's cousin's girlfriend's neighbor," was the skeptical reply. "Next you'll be telling me about unicorns in Central Park."

"This is no legend. Mrs. Adams lives on the fourth floor of my building. Her purse was snatched a few days ago but she got it back thanks to the help of a stranger. And that's not all. Some hopped up punk tried to rob Joe the hot dog vendor down at the corner by the avenue and a man intervened and stopped it. And the cops caught that man who beat up the shopkeeper over by Riverside Park last week, after someone zip tied him to a street light."

John hid his grin. Life was good. Well, not as good as when he'd worked for Harold, but better than he'd thought it could be with Samaritan in control and the team broken apart. He knew he was taking chances, but he was doing what his conscience dictated had to be done.

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The next night the Whiskey Road was forced to close early.

Near midnight a power outage suddenly plunged the bar into darkness. John checked the fuses, couldn't find a reason for the blackout, and called his boss. Worried about customer safety the cautious Derek insisted that his bartender ask the patrons to leave and close up early. It would be a night off- without pay of course- though John didn't mind because the place had been dead, which equaled boring.

As he left, John was surprised to note that all the surrounding buildings up and down the block still had lights- only the Whiskey Road building was dark.

Odd, he thought.

It was a warm evening, the first of the spring to give a hint of the summer to come, and there were many people out on the street enjoying the weather. He had to wait for the light to change to cross the busy intersection, idly standing near a mixed group also waiting- a couple strolling arm in arm in a very public display of affection, two friends chatting animatedly as they discussed the merits of a girl named Amy, and a young punk in a way-too-warm-for-the-weather hoodie. The kid was texting as fast as his thumbs could fly over the keys of his phone.

Out of long ingrained habit, John leaned over and used his height advantage to peer over the teenager's shoulder. He caught a glimpse of the phone, translating the string of abbreviations. "Fun in the park tonight. You're late. Get over here." The kid texted back, "OK. Be right there," and got the answer, "Hurry, you don't want to miss all the fun."

Something about the message and the kid's too eager grin tweaked John's interest. The light changed then and the whole group hurried across the street, all but the kid continuing straight ahead. With nothing better to do with his unexpected time off, on a whim the tall man turned abruptly left, following the kid in the hoodie down past two blocks of old brick apartments and into the dimly lit neighborhood greenspace.

The kid hurried into the park past scrubby bushes just leafing out with the warming temperatures. The further they traveled from the street, the darker it got. Numerous walkway lights were out, creating dark patches of shadow. Sensing trouble, John cautiously zipped up his jacket to cover the easy-to-read bar logo on his shirt. He paused to watch when three more young men stepped out into the open, fist bumping the one he'd been following.

"You're late, Ace."

"Ma made me take out the trash."

The others laughed. "Well, we got us some trash to take out now, but it's the fun kind." He led the foursome deeper into the park until they came upon a bum, sleeping on a bench.

The four-to-one odds alone would have led John to intervene, but having lived on the street himself he had a soft spot for the homeless. Lots of them were veterans, men burned out by the horrors of the combat they'd lived through and by an inability to fit in once they'd returned home- men who were far too wary to accept help, even if they knew where to find it. He understood men like that and he wouldn't stand for one of them being mistreated. After all, he'd been one of them not so very long ago until fate in the form of a reclusive rich man changed his life.

The vigilante stalked silently up behind the four young men who had surrounded the bum on the bench. They were taunting the dirty and unshaven man, reminding John all too clearly of Anton and his none-too-bright cronies accosting him on the subway three years ago.

John felt the blood coursing more quickly through his veins as his adrenaline surged, the tension making his nerves vibrate in anticipation of the approaching action.

He welcomed it.

He was ready.

Maybe he couldn't take down Decima, at least not yet, but he could teach four obnoxious young punks a lesson they wouldn't soon forget.

As one of the gangster wannabes shoved the bum off the bench, John stepped out of the shadows. "You boys really should leave him alone," he said in a quiet conversational tone that still managed to be threatening.

The quartet swung toward him as one, leaving their hapless prey to skitter away into the darkness. They were young and smug and cocky and John knew he was going to enjoy this. Yes, four-to-one were odds he liked against these amateurs.

"You and what army is gonna stop us?" said the shortest of the young thugs- the one who had let the others into the park- making the mistake of stepping to the front and into John's space.

The ex-agent watched impassively as the rest of the crew moved up to stand in a semi-circle just a step behind their leader. John smiled. He recognized the classic scenario, the wolf pack gathered for the attack. But what they didn't know was that they were confronting predator, not prey. They were expecting him to retreat, to fall back in defensive mode.

He of course didn't.

"No army, just me." John almost felt sorry for them in their foolish naiveté. He had missed this- the confrontations, the feeling of power and strength, the good feeling that came from fighting for a righteous cause and helping people who deserved his assistance. His smile was a sneering invitation. "Whenever you boys are ready…"

The leader was puzzled by the confidence of this lone man. "You don't look so tough… just you against all of us." He looked back at his cohorts with a smile.

John struck.

Seizing the initiative, the vigilante who had been known as The Man in the Suit threw the first punch. The hard right jab landed cleanly on the unsuspecting fool's jaw and the thug crumpled like wet paper. John stepped forward and piled into the other three punks using fists, feet and elbows. He relished the impact of flesh against flesh as he employed the skills he'd perfected for so many years.

John fought with abandon. Yes there were three of them- and all much younger than he- but they were rank amateurs fighting a true professional. They landed a couple of lucky blows due to sheer numbers- a roundhouse punch connected to his ribs, a glancing fist to the face grazed his jaw and cut his lip- but he bored in on them, taking the fight to them. They were no match for his well-honed skills and experience, his blows delivered with all the power of his broad shouldered frame.

John sidestepped a wildly thrown punch, grabbed punk number two's arm and wrenched it up behind his back with a vicious twist. It popped out of joint as the thug screamed and went down clutching the dislocated shoulder. Without pause the tall man spun toward the third young tough- the one in the hoodie who he'd followed to the park- as he clumsily bull-rushed John from the left. The ex-agent combined speed with power for maximum effect. John let the kid's forward momentum add power to his punch, driving his well-aimed and perfectly timed fist into his attacker's face. With the audible crunch of breaking bone, the kid's nose gave way, spurting blood. He clutched his face as he sagged to the ground with a gurgling moan.

Punk four had more guts than brains. As John turned from the three downed attackers, the last of them stood defiantly before him, a big bulky kid with hands upraised in a faux boxer's stance like something he had learned from watching too many Rocky movies. He was attempting to hide his fear behind a scowl he was desperately trying to make appear fierce.

And failing.

John shook his head- the stupidity of people never ceased to amaze him. He had just knocked out this fool's three buddies and the idiot still wanted to come at him. "You won't fare any better than your friends," he warned, not caring what the punk decided to do- easier on his knuckles if the kid backed off, much more satisfying if he didn't.

He didn't.

Fueled by pride or stubbornness or just plain stupidity, the young tough rushed at the ex-agent.

And found out how tough he wasn't.

The kid was big and strong but as slow as rush hour traffic. John let him move in close, blocking a poor attempt at a punch with his right forearm and deftly sidestepping with a half-spin that brought his elbow up and into the kid's throat. The attacker gagged, gasped for air and staggered past his intended target. John doubled up his fists and clubbed the punk in the back as he stumbled by. The thug went down.

Not bothering to suppress a satisfied smirk, John shrugged his shoulders and turned… to find himself once again facing tough number one. While John had been busy disposing of the other three, the ringleader had somehow managed to climb back to his feet, swaying as he pulled a knife from his boot. He waved the weapon inexpertly at John, stepping closer and slashing at the air in an exaggerated ninja style. John sidestepped easily and batted aside the clumsy attempt.

The blade would have made no contact at all if punk number two, while writhing around on the ground moaning and holding his dislocated shoulder, hadn't blindly managed at that moment to roll into John's left ankle. Thrown momentarily off balance he took a staggering step toward his attacker, catching his balance. The ringleader's blade sliced through the sleeve of the vigilante's light jacket with a lucky lunge, cutting deep into the flesh of his forearm.

Pain flashed across his face. John jerked his arm back quickly, threw a punishing punch into the punk's face and followed up with a knee to the midsection that put the thug down hard.

John stepped back breathing hard, left hand held tightly over the bleeding gash on his right arm and swearing under his breath. Damn it, he was badly out of practice that he couldn't take down four low life street punks without getting hurt.

A movement in the shadows and the ex-op spun to face the new threat, relaxing when he realized it was the homeless man he'd just saved.

"That was some fightin' mister." The bearded figure approached, grinning a gap toothed smile. "That was somethin'. Ain't seen anything like that since I was overseas. You were in the army weren't ya? A Ranger, I bet. That's where a man learns to do some real fightin', yessirree."

John nodded, keeping one eye focused warily on the quartet of downed toughs but they weren't going to get up again without some help. He bent down to check punk number three's jacket for a cell phone, using his left hand to pat the kid's pockets.

Finding the phone, he quickly dialed 911. "There's a fight in the park. I think someone may be hurt…" He ignored the operator's request for more information and dropped the device on the ground beside the thug. Nodding at the still grinning old vet, John stepped over the unconscious attackers and walked swiftly away.

As he moved he kept his hand squeezed tightly on his arm, trying to stem the steady flow of blood. By the time John reached his apartment he was feeling a little lightheaded actually. His shirt and jacket were soaked with bright red. He wrapped a towel around the bleeding gash and headed for his first aid kit. That had been part of his supply cache, too- professional level medical supplies.

He worked quickly and efficiently, cleaning the wound and grimacing at the sting as he poured disinfectant in the gash. The cut was deep enough to require stitches, John concluded. He pulled the suture kit from the medical supplies and stoically set to work, taking a deep breath before sliding the needle through the skin and piercing the underlying flesh. It was tough tying stitches one handed, but it was a task he'd managed in the past. They weren't very neat but they were adequate and John used the need to focus on the work to suppress the pain.

It took him only a few minutes to finish.

Stitches completed, he covered the wound with a neat bandage and secured it with tape. He dry swallowed a double dose of antibiotics before putting away the first aid kit, then turned to the kitchen cupboard. It was mostly bare but tucked into the back behind a box of corn flakes and two cans of soup was a bottle of whiskey. He poured a hefty amount into a glass and carried it into the living room of the small apartment, seating himself in the worn armchair with a sigh. He sipped the whiskey, letting it slide down smoothly to land with a jolt in his empty stomach.

His adrenaline had died down now and he could feel the ache of his bruises along with the steady throbbing of his injured arm. He flexed his fingers igniting a quick flash of pain, but nothing he couldn't handle he noted with satisfaction.

As he sipped more of the mellow amber liquid, letting it dull the pain of his injuries, John let his mind wander.

That's when it finally dawned on him.

He'd been suckered.

Not by the punks in the park.

But by Harold's invention.

The Machine had done it again, like it had a year ago, changing his itinerary, bumping him from his flight to Istanbul and maneuvering him onto that plane to Rome, derailing his plans.

His new life was a set up. His job at the bar- secured for him by the Machine- brought him into contact with people who needed help, like Lilly. The not-the-best neighborhood where he lived under his new identity- another choice of the Machine- was also filled with people who needed assistance. And saving the bum in the park? He'd been there because of that unexplained power outage.

Finch's damn machine was still calling the shots- or maybe even Finch himself.

The parameters were different now, but he still had a job. He would carry on as the Lone Ranger until his team could be reunited.

But it was plain now that the fight was still on.

John raised his glass in silent salute.

There was still hope after all.

{{The End (well, actually, it's the start of S4)}}

19


End file.
